childhood

December Daughters

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Miss Mythili

Miss Logical:
Daddy had to take a cold shower
because we took all the water
with our up-to-the-line bath.
Miss Tattle-Tale:
(whiny voice)Grandpa, Daddy has the binoculars
and he won’t let me have them!
Miss Manipulative:
I am not going to brush my teeth
or comb my hair until you give me Blankey.
Miss Dreamer:
Wait, star, I need to change my wish!
I actually don’t want to be
a monkey living in a tree.
Miss Imaginative:
(holding a broken piece of cilantro)
I just don’t understand why your
daughter would think it’s OK
to jump over the water like that.
Miss Mythili,
my ever-changing artistic child.

Riona

if i say no to your sister,
she stomps her feet
and demands justice.
if i say no to you,
you reluctantly leave the room,
rest your little legs on a chair,
and silently allow
the crocodile tears to flow down your cheeks.
how could i ever say no to the child
who can’t go an hour
without an I love you
or a kiss on the cheek
or a snuggle on the couch?

Isabella

in the course of a few months
of second grade,
you have learned the
kissing-marriage-baby-carriage song
and its R-rated 21st century version,
how to access the Internet
and what web sites have the best games,
how to apply lipstick
and pose like a model for pictures,
how to multiply and say
Newton’s laws of motion
in English and Spanish,
and how to grow up
too quickly right before my eyes.

Endless Arrays

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this is what it could be like:
the drive along the curvy road,
the sleeping baby at home,
the seven of us occupying
every last seat in the van,
the mountains with their
endless array of snow,
our legs working their way
through drifts and down slopes,
the warming hut that
warms our hearts,
the children with their
endless array of happiness;
you here, the four of us together,
just as all families should be.

Underbelly

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we are here now,
sister, brother-in-law, niece,
grandparents who have filled
the underbelly of the tree
with Wal-mart’s
explosion of Chinese reality.

he and i lie in the dark
on our basement floor mattress,
the tint of the waning moon
lingering light upon his whiskered face.

Santa has already arrived,
stripped down because
the underbelly of the tree
regurgitated its recklessness.

i will never forget,
i tell him,
this time at my own
grandparents’ house,
when my mother,
her measly salary
half of my father’s pittance,
after seeing the
gifts my grandmother
inundated us with,
turned to him and said,
‘I hate being poor.‘

i try to remember this
as we rise before the sun,
set up the camera
in anticipation of their anxious faces,
and spend hours
exchanging money, goods
from the underbelly of the tree
that seems to mock,
wealth, wealth, wealth
with its shedding branches
that drop needles
like tears onto the hardwood.

Christmas Come Early

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the tears disappear
as we light the fire
and with Amaretto in my belly
and Christmas music
dancing its way across the room,
they talk us into
Christmas come early.

it is only a few hours, really,
and the daylight
would steal the mood
we have set from years past.

ten minutes later,
the few gifts are opened,
and three little girls
play dress-up,
performing their
latest dance songs
for the video camera.

this is as small and simple
as i would ever like it to be:
the Scotch pine,
the warm fire,
the relishing of items
shared by all,
the love of what is here
and what is not here
all in the same moment.

Christmastime Glitter

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it could be the lights
twinkling like miniatures stars
or the people walking
hand in hand,
or the horses’ hooves
that sparkle
in Christmastime glitter

or it could be
the three little girls
in footed pajamas
covered in heavy coats,
fleecy hats, and snow boots,
drawing attention
from passersby
about our new fashion trend.

it could be the
fresh baked zucchini cake
with sprinkly cream cheese frosting,
the hot eggnog latte,
the grasshopper chocolate,
that ride down into our stomachs
on a warm sled of delectability.

whatever it is,
the lights, the girls, the food,
it is home, city, love.

Devoured

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how to feed six children:
mix one pound of beef,
one pound of pasta,
a giant jar of tomatoes,
two cups of white sauce,
a few kid-friendly spices,
and place it on the table.

fifteen minutes later,
after firsts and seconds are devoured,
put in a movie and wait.
they’ll wander into the kitchen
one at a time,
begging to be fed again.

get out the half gallon
of ice cream and
place it on the table.
five minutes later,
after firsts and seconds are devoured,
brush their teeth and put them to bed.

when the sun rises,
repeat,
repeat,
repeat.

Always

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what words can i say
twelve hundred miles away?
you are still the girl
with the giant bubble in your mouth,
the sprayed-up bangs
and over-sized boys’ sneakers.
aren’t you?

now a mother like me
a young mother of three
and your pain hides behind your words
just as i hide mine in these poems.
will it wait there,
hidden in scripted messages,
until someone with the right
encryption has the power to release it?

what can i say
twelve hundred miles away?
these words are too late
for amends and lost time.
but i will still put them here
for you to remember the childhood
we shared, the happiness
that hides behind the words,
that, just like the pain,
will find its way out,
ready to release you
into the person you have always been
and always will be.

The Market

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it’s still here
this place i knew
where last i came
under these same sparkling
rays of light
as a teenager with friends
where we bought coffee
and chocolate
shipped in from Vermont
where we sat in
these same heart-shaped
wire-backed
uncomfortable wooden chairs
and laughed and laughed
and walked around
looking at expensive
hot cocoas
and liberal media magazines,
the same ones
that line the shelves this evening,
beer and dinner in our stomachs,
i fall in love all over again.

Advent

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we’re counting down
and can’t even begin
without a fight.
the felt openings
hold only mini ornaments
this year, no candy.
we’re trying to cut back,
though you can’t seem
to understand why.
this should be the advent
of happiness. perhaps
we can reinvent ourselves
and come, reborn, tomorrow.

November Daughters

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Mythili

Freshly six, your latest
obsessions are your new Zhu Zhu
and the Tangled doll
with hair so long
I had to braid it on day one.
Just like when you were two,
you guard your possessions
as fiercely as a new mother,
holding them close to your chest
on all adventures, theirs and yours.
A year from now, what will you love most?
Will you have abandoned these items
for the latest movie character,
or have given in to your love of books,
your soon-to-be expert knowledge of words?
As I say whenever you ask me a question
that I’m not so sure of an answer to
(my response, in your eyes, a yes),
we’ll see.

Riona

With a long line,
a tiny half circle attached,
a diagonal drawn like a
ray of light across the page,
you have written the first
letter of your name. You ask
for more, and I feed them to you.
You swallow them up and
regurgitate the connected-dot i,
the perfect o, the upside-down n,
and the little a, a circle and tail.
And just as you are not quite sure
how to make the letters just right,
I am not quite sure how I am
going to stand here and watch you grow.

Isabella

Fifty-four pounds, almost half my weight,
you still ask me to carry you.
I reach around your skinny waist
and hoist you up, your arms
flailing wildly (impossible
for you to be still, even now)
as we move into your bedroom.
A kiss good night, a button on the iPod,
and you will listen to the same song tonight,
on repeat, that has played for six months.
I imagine your wedding day,
your groom picking you up in a dance.
Will you play this song, remember its waltz?
Or will I be the only one singing,
“Cantaremos alto, cantaremos bajo,”
until my heart can go neither high nor low,
but stay as neutral as your weight in my arms allows.